


Warlock Ex Libris

by quinndk



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Eventual Smut, Everyone Is Gay, Fantasy, Gay Sex, Knights - Freeform, Love Triangle, M/M, Mages, Magic, Male Friendship, Male Slash, Original Character(s), Original Slash, Romance, Unreliable Narrator, Warlocks, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-03-07 12:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18873424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinndk/pseuds/quinndk
Summary: A book lover with a secret. A warrior with a guarded heart. A kingdom that fears magic...Rowan is a libriomage, a warlock who can absorb magic from written words. Oliver is a knight with a gruff disposition, self conscious and sullen due to the arm he lost in a war between mages and humans. When their paths cross in the island kingdom of Centaura, their attraction to each other is immediate and consuming. Further complicating matters is Oliver's best friend, the rebellious King Niklas, who begins competing with him for Rowan's affections.But Rowan - handsome, mysterious, and honest only when convenient - has more to worry about than two potential suitors. A sinister force is descending upon Centaura... and it wants him dead. The hunt for answers entangles him in a conspiracy far more malevolent than he bargained for.A fantasy M/M romance full of flirtation, intrigue, and adventure.





	1. Rowan

                                                                        

All men lie. But not all men lie for the same reasons.

The passage guard scowled at my journeyman's permit while I maintained my composure. Bright and light and innocent, I kept telling myself. Bright and light and innocent. Convincing myself it was true was the next best thing to, well, actually being truthful.

"You're from the All Continent?" The guard was a stout man, square in just about every way, with a face that matched his sour disposition. "Says here you're a... student?"

"I'm an apprentice," I corrected him. "I've come to Centaura to study under the kingdom librarian, Una Wickwellem."

The guard snorted. "You're studying to be a librarian?"

"Yes, sir." I blinked, letting my dimpled smile do the work for me. The part about the apprenticeship was true, at least. The rest of the permit – well, most of it, anyway - was a forged lie.

Behind me on the dock, a long line of fellow travelers grew restless. We'd all spent the better part of the day on the ferry from the All Continent to this island. Seasick, tired, and grumpy, no one wanted to be scrutinized by a Centauran passage guard less than me, but there was no way to get beyond the port without his approval.

The guard read through the contents of my permit. "No prior convictions, no military experience, no magic-bearing abilities."

"That's correct," I said tightly.

He stared at the paper in silence for a moment, then back at my face. My smile became coy. He didn't seem the type I could flirt with, so I hoped my so-called inner charm would be enough. His gaze lingered, then he gestured for another guard to join him.

Fear cut through me like a blade.

The second guard was taller and had a look of befuddlement to him, but he wasn't unattractive. I snuck a wink in his direction. He managed a dopey grin. Good, I thought. I could leverage this, if I had to...

Before I could prepare myself for whatever trouble seemed to be brewing, the squat guard held his hand out to the taller guard.

"Stamp," he said.

The taller guard fetched the stamp and inkpad for his superior, who then pressed the official kingdom seal to my permit. My stomach unclenched; my face relaxed. I wouldn't need to flirt my way to freedom after all. A nagging feeling told me I wouldn't always be this lucky.

"Watch after yourself, boy," the stout guard said as he handed back my permit. "Someone who looks like you could get himself in a lot of trouble."

"Trouble?" I feigned, gathering my travel bag. "Trouble will not find me, sir."

As I walked away, I shot the taller guard another wink. He stared after me hungrily before his superior elbowed him in the ribs. My smile disappeared as soon as his eyes were off me. It happened as naturally as taking off a mask.

My last words to that guard were a lie, I'm sorry to say. Trouble would find me. It always did.


	2. Oliver

"For fuck's sake," Oliver grumbled under his breath.

In all his days as a knight, he had never seen Centaura's market square this busy. Merchants from villages across the kingdom crowded into stalls and hawked their goods, which ran the gamut from flowers and honeyed pastries to swords, daggers and longbows. Great banners of blue and gold - the kingdom colors - whipped freely in the wind. This year's Festival of the Crown looked to be the Centaura's most successful yet. It was certainly shaping up to be the noisiest. It seemed everyone on the island had descended on the market to make a quick handful of skellons for tonight's celebrations.

Oliver hated commotion. This was going to be a long day.

He strode through the crowd, keeping his metal hand on the blade sheathed low on his hip. He kept his good hand freely swinging at his side. As a knight on day patrol, men tended to give him a wide berth, while women found excuses to flirt with him. Today was no different. A girl selling ale tried to catch his eye, as did another with a basket of garlands.

"For your girlfriend," the woman with the garlands implored as she pressed a colorful crown to him. At his metal arm, her eyes flared with curiosity. Oliver tugged down the red cloak at his shoulders until it was covered. He didn't like it when people stared, and people always stared.

"No," Oliver said plainly. When the woman protested, he repeated himself. "No."

"But it's such a beautiful garland."

"Do I look like I am concerned with beauty?"

"Please, sir. This is the least I can do for the bravest man in the Centauran battalion."

A crown of flowers wasn't terribly inconspicuous when paired with the boiled black leather and dull grey chainmail of his armor. The salesgirl offered a pithy smile as he reluctantly took it from her. After a beat, a chorus of happy voices drew his attention away. At the far end of the market, an audience of pre-study aged children sat enraptured before a stall piled with books. Oliver approached them, glaring.

"Hey. You little wraiths keep quiet or I'll have you scrubbing King Niklas' latrines for the rest of the year."

A girl who couldn't have been older than six shot him a nasty look. She pressed a tiny finger against her pursed lips.  _Shhhh_.

Before Oliver could ask what the hell he was being shushed for, a young man exploded up from behind the stall, a storybook in one hand and his other curled like a monster's claw. The children gasped in fear and wonder.

"And then!" He cried, reading from the illustrated pages of the book, "The wyvern's tail lashed at the prince, it's poisonous barb stopped only by his trusty shield!"

The children gasped. Clearly, the storyteller was in the middle of reading some silly yarn and Oliver had momentarily interrupted everyone's enjoyment. The knight stood to the side and watched, silent but skeptical.

"Not today, said the prince! With no sword in hand, all he had to rely upon were his wits." The storybook became the young man's shield, held in place as if guarding him from a beast's wrath. The girl who shushed Oliver pulled on her hair, in agony of the suspense.

"As the prince ran to find cover, the wyvern roared a stream of fire!"

The young man mimicked a wyvern's monstrous, fire-throated roar. The kids leaned away, giggling and screaming in delight. It was easy to see why they were so enchanted. Their storyteller was highly skilled, with expressive voice work and warm, engaging eye contact that ensured every child felt involved in the action. Despite Oliver's well-deserved reputation as surly (or _a shit-heel curmudgeon_ , if you asked his best friend, King Niklas), he found himself quietly charmed by the young man's showmanship.

As the storyteller paused to turn the page, a boy with messy hair and a smear of candied lemon on his mouth noticed Oliver watching them. The knight glowered at the boy.

"It's the wyvern!" the hellion shrieked, which got the whole smattering of them going. Children were taught early on to respect the authority of the battalion, though young minds tended to confuse respect with fear. So, the kids scattered, shrieking and laughing as they dashed away.

"Remember to tell your parents about the library!" the young man called. "We're open until sundown every..." He trailed off, knowing that none had listened. "Oh, damn it all."

Soon, the only one left standing before the stall of books was Oliver. The young man observed him silently.

"My apologies," Oliver said neutrally, "I didn't mean to frighten away your audience."

"Well, it looks like you're my audience now. I don't suppose you'd be interested in hearing the rest of the story?" His accent was hard to place, sophisticated and foreign.

"Do I look like a child to you, boy? Or a simpleton?"

The young man blinked at him. His gaze was curious and intelligent, yet strangely shy. Oliver found that odd – anyone with his looks had no reason to be bashful.

His features were boyish but striking, with sharp eyes the color of glistening emeralds. His black hair fell in waves over his forehead and curled slightly at his neck. Unlike most men of Centaura, he did not have facial hair, and his fair skin was even and healthy. Slender as a blade, too. Were it not for his commoner's clothes, he could have been mistaken for a prince – or at least an aristocrat's handsome son.

It wasn't until the young man awkwardly cleared his throat that Oliver realized neither of them had been speaking for several moments.

"Were you seriously going to make all those kids clean latrines?"

"No. Though the one with candy on his mouth had me considering it."

The younger man laughed. "I'm Rowan."

The knight lifted his chin in acknowledgement. "Oliver Belgrave, lieutenant knight. I serve under King Niklas Destrian. Don't think I've seen you make such a loud ruckus around these parts before."

"I'm from the All Continent, sir. I arrived this past fortnight. I have my journeyman's permit if you wish to see it."

"Not necessary. But you are young to be travelling alone, no?"

"Well, I've just turned 25."

That surprised Oliver. He looked younger. "What brought you to Centaura?"

"I'm apprenticing at the library. I'm still getting a feel for your kingdom's customs and events. When I heard of the Festival of the Crown, I volunteered to advertise the library's services. I'm afraid Miss Wickwellem and I don't see many patrons most days."

Oliver couldn't recall ever visiting the library in all his patrols through the city. He wasn't even sure where it was.

"You've traveled all the way from the All Continent to be a librarian?"

"You say that like it's so hard to believe. As if I've told you I've come to Centaura to be a housecat." Without skipping a beat, Rowan gestured to the stack of books on the counter. "Would you like to borrow something? We have tales of adventure, texts of science and philosophy, theses on any subject you can imagine…"

"No."

Rowan mimicked Oliver's expression. " _No_ , he says so seriously. So commandingly. Do all knights speak this tersely or is it only you?"

Oliver raised a brow skyward. Good looking lad, yes, but he had a bit of a mouth on him.

"I hate to insist, sir, but it would be a great benefit to the library if a knight was seen enjoying one of our books. We are a painfully underutilized service. I would like to see that changed."

He said it with a gentle smile that could have stopped a rampaging bear in its tracks. Warmth bloomed beneath Oliver's armor. "But to take a book without paying for it? What kind of business operates this way?"

"That's the point, sir. A library is not a business. It's a cultural and intellectual resource." Again, that smile. Innocent and mischievous in equal measure. Without waiting for a response, Rowan chose a book with red and gold binding and handed it to Oliver.

"Here, read this one.  _Mercenary of the Underworld_. It's about an epic crusade waged on a fascinating land full of monsters. The hero is a mute soldier on a quest for vengeance. Something tells me you won't be able to put it down."

Oliver grasped for something to say but found no words. Rowan was half his size and not even remotely threatening. A sack of horse feed was larger than him - and likely heavier. Why was conversation suddenly so difficult?

The difference in their height was considerable, so Rowan had to crane his neck up in order to meet Oliver's eyes. "If you're still uncomfortable with taking a book, you can give me something to keep while you read it. A temporary trade."

Oliver glanced at the red and gold book. "This is really that important to you?"

" _This is really that important._ " Again, Rowan mimicked his sullen voice. "The only other way I can think of trumpeting the library is to storm the King's podium and shout to the entire city. But I'm not much of a public speaker."

"That, and you'd be arrested."

"Unless I outrun anyone trying to arrest me."

"You wouldn't want to run."

"Why not?"

"Because then I'd have to chase you."

The younger man stilled, lips opening slightly, as if a new sort of awareness had been sparked inside him. His eyes darted away, eager to be hidden. Oliver rather liked that this sudden bashfulness softened Rowan's acerbic edges.

In the stall next to theirs, a merchant threw a celebratory handful of blue and gold lilies into the crowd. Oliver remembered the garland hidden in his cloak and, with some amount of courage, extended it to the younger man. "Here. To keep you from running."

Rowan accepted it with a surprised nod. "Don't think I've ever been given flowers before. Shall this be our trade then? A book for a crown of lilacs and roses?"

"If you deem it fair."

"Ah, such a gentleman, putting the decision in my hands. Very well. When you're finished with  _Mercenary of the Underworld,_ return it to the library. It's twenty blocks west of King Niklas' castle, right beside the Grateful Nomad."

"Odd. A library next to a tavern."

"Yes, I don't think Miss Wickwellem read the property deed too closely when she signed it. Alas. You'll read  _Mercenary_ and enjoy it."

"If I have the time," Oliver said noncommittally.

"You wouldn't make a librarian's apprentice beg, would you?"

"I'll carry your book around, but I can't guarantee anything more than a hasty glance."

Rowan touched Oliver's right hand. The real hand. The gentle warmth of the younger man's skin made lightning surge through his body. Rowan's voice lowered. "Promise me you'll read."

Oliver could only stare, forbidden thoughts and sensations rendering him speechless. Rowan's hands were smooth and unblemished, while his own were rough with sword blisters. It felt so effortless, this contact, but he couldn't allow it. No. This was too dangerous. He took a large step backward.

"Oh, I..." Rowan sputtered. "I'm sorry."

"I will return this to your library. Later. Good day."

"Alright. Good day, then." Rowan was clearly taken aback by his reaction. Disappointment burned quietly on his face.

Oliver flared with shame as he walked away. Truth be told, he had not felt the intimate touch of another man in a long time. The sensation had been so distant it registered as new and strange.

Before the market crowd could fill in the distance between them, Oliver chanced a brief look over his shoulder. Rowan was watching him leave. His bright smile was gone, replaced with a muted, curious expression. Dare it be said, he almost looked fascinated with the knight.

Dare it be said, Oliver might have been fascinated in return.

* * *

As the afternoon sun slipped low on the horizon and cast the island in soft hues of gold and pink, Oliver returned to the royal castle fortressed in the center of town. He was eager to end his shift, to get away from the Festival and the people and their noise.  _Thank the Goddesses I'm not on duty tonight_ , he thought as he crossed the foyer toward the stairs. He was barely halfway up to his chambers, wondering if there was any hot water left to fill his bath basin, when two breathless and panicked squires bumbled into his path.

"Sir! Sir! Oh, praise Eulkyrin. We've been looking all over, sir!"

Oliver steeled himself. Squires were usually dead afraid of speaking to him. Something must have been wrong. "Is there a reason why you two piles of wyvern dung are standing between me and a quiet, relaxing bath?"

"It's the King. We can't find him anywhere."

"And his speech begins half passed sundown!"

"And a group of strangers is asking after him. They call themselves the... what was it?"

"The Red Eclipse?"

"They said they were a peace group-"

"I think they looked like mages-"

"Shh! Don't say such a horrible thing!"

A low grumble escaped Oliver's mouth. Unfortunately, Niklas disappearing right before a big event was a common occurrence.

"Have you tried his chambers? The thronehall? The courtyard? The pantries?"

The squires nodded after each item, trembling. There was one other place he suspected Niklas could be found – and it required a reserve of patience that only Oliver seemed to possess. A tired, heavy sigh escaped his mouth.

"Tell the Red Eclipse to wait, whoever they are. I'll fetch the damned King."


	3. Niklas

The Lord King of Centaura, Niklas of the Warrior House Destrian, rolled off the handsome stable boy when he heard someone approaching the barn. Niklas' bare torso was slick with sweat and seed, and he'd only begun wiping it down with his tunic when his best friend, greatest confidante, and major pain in the arse Oliver Belgrave appeared at the barn door.

The knight flushed at what he saw but did not turn away. "For Goddesses' sake, Niklas."

"What do you look so bent in the craw about? Nothing you haven't seen before," the king replied with a sideways grin.

The stable boy gathered his clothes in a hurry, not bothering to dress first as he ran from the barn. Oliver pointedly stared at the ceiling until he was gone.

"I've a theory," Niklas said as he propped his arms behind his head and crossed his feet. The soft hay felt good against his naked body. "That the longer you abstain from anything resembling sex, the crankier you get with me."

"You're late for the Festival."

"Honestly. Take a tumble with a nice lad or lady. It'll loosen those frown lines if anything. When's the last time you've been to the slyhouse? The girls are always asking after 'the tall one with the sullen eyes and hair like shadowed gold'. They seem quite fond of the shape of your jaw, as well."

"Nik, stop. What if the councilors heard you talking about the slygirls like this?"

"Those droopy old bastards and crones have heard worse from my mouth."

"Of that there is no doubt."

"The slyboys are quite a sight, too, if that's what's scratching your itch these days."

"On that topic, how have you not run through every blacksmith assistant and farm boy on the island yet?"

The king stood and stretched, yawning as he moved. He plucked strands of hay matted to his chest hair. "What can I say, dear Oliver? I'm just giving the people what they desire. Don't be so rutting jealous you can't bag anyone as pretty as that tail that just ran out."

Oliver's bronzed skin would have reddened were he not so tan. "A couple of squires told me there is a foreign committee asking after you. The Red… er..."

"The Red Eclipse?" The king scrounged around the barn for his clothes. "Sounds familiar. A coalition of mages, I've heard."

Oliver went rigid. "Is this true, then? Mages in Centaura, unguarded?"

"If the passage guards allowed them into port, they likely have peace permits."

"Did you know they were coming?"

Niklas shrugged, pulled on his undershirt, then his trousers. He hated the feeling of clothes on his body. He'd rule Centaura completely nude if he could. "The councilors like to gossip. There's been whispers of this Red Eclipse since the end of the war. Apparently, they've been traveling across the All Continent on these peacekeeping missions, so the word goes."

"I don't like this," Oliver shook his head. "What reason would mages have to visit a small island kingdom? Do they not have enough to worry about? And button your fly already, Nik!"

"What, and miss the opportunity to put my best attribute on display for our new guests?"

Oliver stared at him. Niklas roared with laughter and punched the chest plate of his armor. "How is it possible you're still the same stick-in-the-shit you were in knightstudy?"

"How is it possible you haven't matured one day since we were in knightstudy?"

Humor wasn't the only way they were dissimilar. Oliver kept his dark blond hair short and tidy, while Niklas' hair was chocolate brown and long enough to be tied back in a knot. The king's eyes were dark and playful, while the knight's were pale grey and set with a permanent intensity. Niklas was a great deal scruffier than his friend, with an impressive beard that was just on the verge of appearing overgrown. And while both men had hirsute, muscular physiques, Niklas was the bulkier of the two, and just a hair taller (a detail that Oliver often disputed).

Their lifelong friendship puzzled other members of the King's court. One man was cold where the other ran hot, one was boisterous where the other was sullen. But it made sense to the two of them, this oil and water camaraderie, even if it made sense to one else.

After some squabbling over where Niklas had left his crown (which turned out to be half-hidden in the barn feeding trough), the duo returned to the royal castle. They were halfway across the thronehall - and deep into an argument about whether Niklas should take a bath first - when four figures emerged from the shadows.

Oliver unsheathed his sword and shield and spun to guard the king with practiced precision. Niklas snorted a laugh as the four people stepped into the light. Two women and two men, each in exotic robes and intricate capes that did not match the basic, egalitarian dress of the kingdom.

"If you're here to kill us you're sadly mistaken about your chances."

The first to speak was the tallest – a woman with dark red hair braided down to her waist. Her voice boomed, as commanding and intimidating as her physical presence. "A dramatic entrance could not be helped. We've been waiting to speak with you for quite a while, Lord King."

Niklas frowned. "And who the bleeding hell are you?"

"I am Vishi, Arch Witch of the Battlemages."

"A battlemage in my court. You sure you're not here to kill me?"

"Nik," Oliver hissed.

The battlemage smiled without humor. "Tell your guard to stand down. We are visitors here in full accordance with the Chaos War treaty."

Niklas walked the few short steps to his throne and sat. His eyes danced along the three remaining people. The other woman in the group stood close to Vishi, short, strange, and aloof looking. The two men couldn't have been more opposite of each other, physically – one was solid and brutish while the other was delicate and wispy. "The rest of you. Either introduce yourselves or leave. I have several tankards of ale in my near future, and the sight of you lot has me thirsty."

Vishi introduced the other woman in the group, whose head was shaved and marked with ornate tattoos. "This is Naxa, Arch Witch of the Astralmages."

"She can't speak for herself?" Niklas cocked a brow.

"I can," Naxa replied airily, without emotion or weight, "If I feel it's necessary."

Niklas and Oliver exchanged a look. Astralmages were known to be rather loopy, always speaking as if they were thousands of miles away.

The brutish man stepped forward next. He sported a long, bushy moustache and his bare arms were carpeted in dark hair. He could've passed for a knight or a mercenary were it not for the mystical staff strapped to his back. "Eddr. Arch Warlock of the Necromages."

"A necromage," Niklas repeated, "I've never met one of your faction before."

Eddr folded his giant arms across his equally large chest. He said something to Vishi in a low hush. She replied with an annoyed whisper.

"What's the problem?" Oliver asked.

Vishi cleared her throat. "Forgive Eddr. He… wishes to enjoy the food and drink and, um… intimate company of tonight's Festival. Sooner rather than later."

Niklas chuckled. Seemed he and the necromage had something in common. He looked to the remaining man of the group – the prettier one. "And who are you?"

"I am Hjulan," the man grinned, somewhat temptingly. He had a calm, angelic face, framed by pastel blue hair that shimmered in the thronehall's ambient light. He spoke with a dreamy, lilting tone. "Arch Warlock of the Curemages."

Vishi nodded to her colleagues. "The four mages standing before you are the greatest of our respective disciplines. In the ruins of the Chaos War, we've come together to form a peaceful coalition, to show the world that mages can work in harmony for the betterment of all. We are the Red Eclipse."

"And what business do you have with the King?" Oliver's voice was practically a growl. His hand stayed on his sword's hilt.

The astralmage Naxa locked him with an intense stare. "This one has magic running through him," she said. "Yet he is not a warlock."

Oliver began to respond but Niklas cut him short before he could make a tense situation worse. "My friend and brother in spirit, Oliver Belgrave, suffered the loss of his left arm during the Chaos War. He was grafted with a metal prosthetic."

All eyes in the room fell to Oliver's prosthetic arm, half-hidden behind his red cloak. The knight did not meet any of their gazes.

"The work of ironmages," Naxa said, a note of surprise in her otherwise deadpan voice. Her head tilted back. "I feel it. It's magic that tethers that false limb to your body… and it is magic that allows it to move in concert with your mind. Isn't that right?"

Vishi studied their faces. "I don't understand. You shun magic in your kingdom but accepted the work of ironmages?"

Niklas stood so quickly the throne nearly toppled over. "Without the work of the ironmages Oliver would have been left a cripple to rot in the Deathfields with the rest of the knights and valkyries lost in that despicable war! A war that you bloody lot started! While your factions ripped and tore each other to pieces, humanity was left defenseless in the crossfire, and none of you cared one damn bit!"

Oliver took his friend's shoulder. "Nik…"

The king shrugged away his hand. Once the fire was unleashed it was impossible to throttle. "Don't you dare come to my court and pass judgment on me for doing everything I could to save this man's life!"

The Red Eclipse stood silent as they absorbed his words. Hjulan stepped forward, hands clasped in supplication. "Forgive the indelicate words of my colleagues, Lord King. This is a fraught time for us all, humans and mage-born alike. Allow me to say this: although the Chaos War was largely fought between mages, not all of us agreed with or supported this bloody, pointless endeavor. We sincerely apologize for humanity being swept into a conflict that should never have reached the worldly scale it did."

Niklas, still seething from his outburst, took a beat to calm himself. "This is why your kind has come to Centaura?"

Vishi squeezed Hjulan's hand, a thank you. The curemage smiled reverently in return. Clearly, she was the leader and they were her charges. "Correct, Lord King. The purpose of our visit is to formally express our apologies. Just as the ironmages had by allowing your guard a new chance at life. We've been engaged in a pilgrimage of peace across the All Continent and now we bring that message to the isles."

Niklas returned to his throne. He sat, thinking, observing the strange faces watching him so expectantly. "And what are the terms of your visit?"

"Same as the terms of any peace permit," Vishi said. She produced the document from an inner pocket of her battle tunic. "This allows us at least one month's stay, subject to extension. We've already paid our deposit and quite a generous keeper's fee to the Dandelion Inn. While on your soil, we wish to observe the culture of your kingdom, to offer support where we can, and to establish a relationship of trust with your citizens."

"In case you weren't aware," Niklas gestured to her permit. "A king has veto power over that piece of paper should he deem its usage a danger or detriment to his kingdom."

Vishi approached the stairs to the throne. A challenge, almost. That she was the most formidable person in the room came as no surprise to Niklas. Battlemages were fearsome fighters and strategists even without the aid of magic. "What say you, then, Lord King? Do you deem us a danger or detriment to Centaura?"

Another stretch of silence. An eternity. And then a knowing smile creased Niklas' beard. "That, I am not entirely sure. But for now, I will respect the terms of your permit. I assume you will be decent guests."

Vishi matched his smile and tone. "I assume you will be a decent host."

* * *

"Are you going to nag me all the way to my chambers?" Niklas asked over his shoulder as he threw open the doors to the royal bedroom.

"You don't know anything about these people," Oliver said, not bothering to hide his irritation. "You haven't even spoken with the councilors about this and that is their very purpose. To  _council_. And you allow these strangers to stay? In some blasted inn? Among your citizens?"

The king fell back onto his bed and rubbed his eyes. "I should've closed that door behind me."

"Nik. I am not only your friend, I am a member of your battalion. The only thing that matters to me is the safety of my king."

"Then you need a hobby."

"Could you be bloody serious for once?"

"I'm late for my speech. Why are you still here? You're not even on duty right now. Go and enjoy the Festival, son of a wyvern."

Oliver exhaled quietly. "I take this to mean you're unwilling to discuss this further."

"Ah, you know me so well. Where'd that crown of mine go?"

"The councilors will have your arse strung up from the highest tower for this, you realize."

"I'll just tell them it was your idea. Honestly, where did that stupid crown go?"

"It's still on your head, you fool."

Niklas pawed at it to confirm. He snorted with laughter, took it off, and undid the knot low on the back of his head. Chocolate brown hair fell to his shoulders. "I tied my hair in haste after we left the barn. I always seem to get the knot a bit crooked. It looks better when you do it."

Oliver grunted. "Me?"

"Would you mind? A fool like me can't do it himself. I'll need to look sharp for my speech. Isn't that why you interrupted my private time in the first place?"

"Ah, right. If only I could unsee that whole misadventure." He gathered Niklas' hair together. Though he didn't notice, the king smiled. He always liked how it felt when Oliver did this.

"Fling insults all you like. By proxy it was the closest you've had to rutting all year."

"It hasn't been a  _year_ ," Oliver jabbed back. "And what is this obsession with my love life?"

"We're men, you and me. We have our desires. No matter what the other knights say about you, you're still human."

Oliver snapped the hair tie a little tighter than normal at that comment. Niklas reacted with a yelp. "Your hair's done."

The king admired his reflection in the vanity mirror. "Feels nice, looks even better. Not crooked at all. I feel like I could slay an entire army of lycanmen and I wouldn't have a single hair out of place. Dare I suggest your talents are wasted on a sword and shield."

"Have I mentioned you're late to your speech?"

"That would be your thousandth mention, yes. Will I see you in the crowd?"

"I don't know, Nik. It's been a long day. I was thinking of a bath and a bottle of wine."

"Sounds perfect. Now if you could throw in a pretty young thing to get you nice and clean…"

"Goodnight, you fool."

"I hear the love in your voice, Oliver. Try as you might to hide it."

The knight paused at the door. His voice went low, thoughtful. "I'll only ask you this once more. The Red Eclipse. You're sure you're not making a mistake?"

Niklas watched his hands as he fitted them into his gauntlets. They did not shake. "I may have temporarily taken the title of king, but I was born a warrior and I will likely die a warrior. Do not mistake my hospitality for submission."

This seemed to satisfy his hard-headed friend, though it was often difficult to tell. Oliver wasn't the most expressive man.

"Now, get out of here. I have a speech to give. And then I'm going to get drunk."


	4. Rowan

I bounded into the library with a grunt, feet sore and my face sunburned. Awkwardly, I maneuvered by the circulation desk, balancing all the children's books clutched in my arms. Miss Wickwellem looked up from her chair. Faux-crystal rimmed spectacles magnified her wild eyes. A dramatic affectation for a librarian, but they made sense on her heart-shaped, rosy face, which was creased with well-earned laugh lines.

"Oh! You survived!" she trilled, clapping her hands together. Her many rings and bracelets jangled in symphony. "The children didn't eat you alive after all."

"The children weren't nearly as bad as you said. Dare I say, a few of them seemed to enjoy me. I did manage to read two stories - well, one and a half, before they all had a fright and ran off."

She squinted at my head and tapped the top of her skull, hidden as it was behind reams of curly hair. "What's this you have? Did you fall into a garden on your way back?"

The garland Oliver had given me. I forgot I was wearing it. The flowers were lovely, a variety of lilacs and roses and blossoms. The band did a great job of holding my thick, wavy hair in place.

"It was a gift. The Festival has people in a generous mood."

"Ah," Miss Wickwellem's fingers drummed her ledger. "And who was the gentleman?"

Eager to avoid her knowing gaze, I placed my armful of books to the return cart and checked off the titles on the circulation ledger. The last I'd seen of Oliver he was retreating toward the castle in utter embarrassment. All because I had taken his hand. Humbling, I must admit.

"Ha! You think I was born last winter?" she said when I didn't respond, "The Festival may have began as a celebration of Centaura's independence but in practice it's a bloody mating ritual. Men and women, fuelled by free booze, courting each other in all sorts of combinations... tuh. I know what'll be happening in alleyways across town tonight. I'm no idiot."

"No one was  _courting_  me," I huffed playfully, "This was merely the result of a trade. I convinced a knight to borrow a book."

"A knight?" The librarian shot out of her chair, gasping with laughter. She only barely stopped a bottle of ink from spilling over. "I'll be a wyvern's tail! I didn't think any of them could read."

"Be kind, ma'am! It did take some convincing on my part."

"I'm sure all you had to do was bat your eyelashes, show a little clavicle. What did this knight look like? Tell me."

I'd seen knights on patrol before, but Oliver was the first to speak with me. I took my time in absorbing his details, the black leather, chainmail, and armored steel of his outfit. He stood out in a crowd, not just for his height and brooding good looks, but for the red cloak draped around his shoulders and left arm, like a sideways cape.

Oliver was a tall man, broad-shouldered and solid. Much of his physique was hidden behind his uniform, but his neck was thick and cabled with muscles. His short hair was a darker shade of blond, as was the stubble that dusted his sculpted face and hard, square jaw. His eyes, a grey that bordered on silver, said much more than his words. I could see a war behind them when he looked at me.

I could fill entire scrolls describing Oliver, the unexpected longing I felt when I first laid eyes on him, how I imagined his large, warm hands caressing my body…

I absently fanned myself with the circulation ledger. "He was tall."

"About half the men on this island are taller than you," she said with a sharp laugh. "Narrow it down for me, love. Was he handsome?"

I began reshelving the books, wishing that I was halfway across the world instead of here. "That hardly matters. The point is, I was able to make him a patron."

"I'm sure he was hoping you'd read to him instead. Alone in his chambers. With the curtains drawn."

"Not every man who lays eyes on me wants to rut me senseless."

"Surely you've seen a mirror, you daft boy. Now tell me more about this knight before I get upset. How full did his trousers look?"

In the two weeks I have been studying librarianship under Miss Wickwellem, we have not had one professional conversation. Not that I minded so much. During our first meeting I found her to be funny and informal and very open about her personal life, so I told her an anecdote about a stonemason who once asked me to dinner and then mysteriously arrived to our date with his face and chest covered in dried mud (a state he did not explain and I felt entirely too awkward to ask about). Since then, we've circled the same topic over and over: Miss Wickwellem's thoughts on Centauran men. Specifically, how more of them should be rutting me.

"I'm not staying in Centaura for long, ma'am. When my apprenticeship is over I'll be heading back to the All Continent to look for a career placement. I don't have room in my life for romance."

"Romance?" She reacted as if I'd spat at her. "Such a thing is dead. The best you can hope for is a man who won't flee from your cot as soon as the sun rises."

"How very poetic."

"Speaking of which, I'm off early today. I want to get a good spot in the crowd for the King's speech. You're free to join me."

"Ah, no thank you, ma'am. I'll finish off my shift and close everything here."

Miss Wickwellem took an exaggerated look around the empty building. "It's not as if we're fending off patrons with a stick. I'll still pay you for a full day's work. The Festival only happens once a year!"

The last thing I wanted was to be trapped in a huge crowd of drunk and mindless people for an entire night. I politely refused her invitation several more times before she gave up and left for the day, muttering about my stubbornness. As she disappeared into the quickly darkening night and the doors closed behind her, my shoulders relaxed.

With no patrons to watch over, I took the stairs up to my small loft. One of the benefits of being Miss Wickwellem's trainee was that she housed me right in the library. She was kinder to me than I deserved. I'd hate for her to find out I wasn't really seeking a career as a librarian. Her heart would freeze in her chest if she knew why I'd really come to Centaura…

Beneath my bed I retrieved the satchel full of books I'd been methodically taking out of the library's collection. As I didn't want to arouse suspicion, I had only taken one per day. They were ordinary and very basic books, none that would ever be missed. But I still had to be strategic in my choices. Taking a book that would not provide any useful magic was a waste of time, not to mention a potential danger. If I wanted to safely reach my next destination, the so-called Obsidian Keep, I would need all the magic I could get...

I caressed the spine of my latest acquisition, a dry and humorless tome about the history of warfare. The latent battlemagic practically hummed between the letters, begging to use my body as its vessel. This book would be useful if I found myself in a situation where I needed to fight. Granted, I am no battlemage, but I could use the power similarly as long as I concentrated. The trick was having the book within reaching distance, keeping a clear enough mind to absorb its energy, and focusing hard enough to wield it before its reserve ran out...

Jealousy suddenly pierced my thoughts. Blurgh. It was so much easier to be any  _other_  type of mage. Their power was right at their fingertips, ready to be summoned with a simple thought. I could only use magic through deliberation and physical contact with a book page – and that's only if the book in hand had a strong enough magical imprint I could absorb from. If there was an easier way for me to do it, I had not been taught. In all my travels, I have never met another libriomage. Isn't that absurd? Not a one! I've not even met a warlock or witch who's heard of a damn libriomage. As far I know, I'm the only one of my kind.

I closed my eyes and tried to calm my breath. My heart was thundering now, and it did no good to make myself so anxious.

 _Stay focused on the Obsidian Keep_ , a voice reminded me.  _Find those answers, fill in the gaps._

The desk bell rang as the front door opened and shut. Drat. It was already passed sundown and I'd forgotten to lock up behind Miss Wickwellem. This happened sometimes, a drunkard would wander in and confuse us for the Grateful Nomad tavern one door away.

I carefully hid my procurement of stolen books and returned to the main floor, grumbling with each footstep. "My apologies, but the library's closed for the night."

Oliver stood by the front desk, looking as if he were treading through rising water. I was startled to find him in casual clothes: rumpled black trousers, well-used boots, and a light brown shirt laced down the center. Had I assumed a knight never took off his armor? Never allowed himself the luxury of cotton and linen and fur? Funny, the things you never consider. Somewhat scandalously, Oliver's collar was open, offering a peek of chest hair and an outline of his solid pectoral muscles. I tried not to stare.

"Sir? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"I came to, erm... to... return... the book." He stepped slowly across the room. His right sleeve was rolled up on a tanned, powerful forearm in mid-flex. He handed back  _Mercenary of the Underworld_ and again, I tried not to stare. I largely failed.

"You've only had it since this afternoon. Have you finished it already?"

"You sound surprised."

"It's a fairly lengthy novel. I know I wouldn't be able to finish it in a day."

His left sleeve wasn't rolled up like the other one, I noticed, and he wore a leather glove over his left hand. Before I could comment, he cleared his throat.

"Could I be frank with you, Rowan?"

"Oh. Please do."

He exhaled, voice deep with discomfort. "I would like to apologize. For our previous conversation."

"You mean our only conversation?"

"I reacted to you strangely. I'd rather- I'd rather you not find me strange."

A grin I'd been hiding poked the corners of my mouth. "And if I do?"

His brows - dark, unlike his hair - knitted together in concern. "It's not a quality befitting a knight."

"Why does my opinion matter so much? I'm not your captain or your king. We've only just met."

He didn't seem to have an answer to that. He  _was_ strange, and ungainly, and abrupt in conversation, but I found those qualities endearing. I suppose that makes me strange as well.

"For what it's worth, I accept your apology and I should offer my own. I can be very passionate about the written word, and in doing so I sometimes overstep certain boundaries. Please, forgive me."

Something that might have passed for a smile appeared on his face. But it was fleeting, a brief glimpse of the sun between storm clouds. "You've no reason to apologize."

"Huh, well, you Centauran knights are very agreeable. A knight or valkyrie from the All Continent would brain me with a glaive if I so much as looked at them sideways."

Oliver shrugged. "Perhaps it's not so different here. But we have good leadership in our king. I don't think my continental brothers and sisters have many such examples."

"I've not seen this infamous King Niklas yet, to be honest. How is his manner?"

"He can be thick-headed, but he's a good leader nonetheless. Cares for his people."

"Sadly a rare quality. I've heard he's rather young for a ruler."

"He's young if you consider me young. We grew up together. He still talks to me as if nothing's changed and we're still youths in knightstudy."

For some reason I found this fact delightful. He had a friend! I'd taken him for a loner. "What's it like being friends with a king?"

The knight shrugged his wide shoulders. "I'm not sure how to answer that. His path to the throne was not... traditional. Our whole lives, I've only ever known him as the man most likely to get kicked out of a village inn for sleeping with the owner's son. And all of a sudden, he inherits a title he and his family never in a thousand years thought he'd inherit, and, well..."

"I don't understand. House Destrian isn't a royal family?"

Oliver stopped himself short of barking with laughter. "Goddesses, no, the Destrians are from the Northlands. No one with a title has set foot on those frozen grounds in ages. No, lad, House Engerri was our royal family."

"I thought the only way kinghood could be inherited by another House was if the entire royal family-" Upon Oliver's sudden grave expression, I knew I didn't need to complete my thought aloud. "Oh. That's horrible. How? When?"

"How else. The Chaos War."

"Two years," I muttered distantly. "I'm sorry for your kingdom's loss."

"We all lost something in that war," Oliver said, pointedly looking elsewhere. "The Engerris all defended their kingdom to the bloody end. The mages were ruthless. Men, women, children… it didn't matter who was in their way. When it was finally over, the councilors discovered that the former king, in his will, named House Destrian the royal successor. And my witless friend Nik just so happened to be the eldest son."

A king who became king almost entirely by accident. What a scandal that must have been – and no wonder these people were so hostile when it came to magic. I should have known. Mages from the All Continent whispered warnings of this place. Some might have called me a fool for traveling here on my own accord, but it was only one of a few kingdoms to keep a library at all, so my options were limited. With no other libriomage to support or guide me, I had to operate entirely in secret, all under the unforgiving watch of a kingdom that would fear and hate me if my identity ever came to light. Which meant that any dalliance between me and a Centauran would be bad, bad, bad idea indeed.

It was this thought that made me nakedly aware of the fact that Oliver and I were alone. An entire sea of books and yet only five feet of space separated us.

"Here. I suppose I should return this to its rightful owner." I took off the flower garland. My wavy black hair fell free, which I raked through with my fingers in an effort to look presentable.

"I have no use for such a thing, lad. Keep it."

"Oh, don't act so chivalrous, I'm merely honoring our trade. This garland was yours."

"It's better suited on you. Here, may I?" Oliver offered to place the garland back on my head. I allowed him. His nearness quietly thrilled me, as did the fleeting sensation of his fingers on my hair.

"How do I look?" I asked when he finished.

"Noble."

That made me laugh. "Noble, sure. Perhaps a prince of some forgotten garden. But thank you."

Neither of us said anything for a while, and he motioned like he was about to leave, but something stopped him. "I would like to see you again."

"See who? Me?"

"You, the one I'm speaking to at this very moment. Yes."

"Sir," I breathed, facing the nearest bookshelf. My hands nervously pushed in a few unaligned books. "The library is open sunrise to sunset. You may visit us any time between them."

"That's not what I meant. And I don't think you're as coquettish as you're pretending to be right now."

The back of my neck studded with goosebumps. He stood much closer now. I could feel the heat of his body, his breath faint against my ear.

"Oliver, the last time I saw you, the mere touch of my hand made you run like I was some leper begging for money."

"I've apologized."

"I know you have. But what changed between now and then?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it was the annoying but persistent voice of my friend Nik. Perhaps it was this Festival, the agony of seeing so many happy couples celebrating together. Perhaps it was realizing that I couldn't count the number of nights I've spent in a trance, taking another listless bath, drinking another bottle of wine, falling asleep alone. That would've been tonight's plans, had I not remembered a curious fellow I met earlier today."

I did like the image of Oliver in a bath, wet skin glistening in candlelight, long legs angled over the lid, dripping soapy water on his bedroom floor. I similarly enjoyed the image of him pulling me into that bath and onto his lap. But I kept that to myself.

"This fellow must be curious indeed if he could rouse such emotions in you." I gathered the courage to look at him again. His direct gaze would have scared me if I didn't find his attention so intoxicating.

"You've no idea how curious," he answered.

 _Remain strong_ , I told myself.

"I'm not sure what you're asking of me, but my stay in Centaura is temporary, and any-" I cringed to use the word "-relations of mine would be as well. You don't seem to be a temporary type of man."

"You don't know what type of man I am. I'm not expecting the moon and the stars, Rowan. All I'd like is for us to share a drink, or a meal, or maybe a walk and a conversation down by the shore. We lead very different lives, you and I. A brute like me would benefit from your… intelligence, your grace with words. Your beauty."

"You've no need to flatter me."

"I agree. A beautiful man doesn't need to be flattered."

His tone was dry and unromantic, his words little more than a deep mutter. But still, he said it.

"Why are you doing this, Oliver?"

"Doing what?"

"Being kind. You don't even know me."

"You think I have to know you to be kind to you?"

"I think if you knew me, you'd think twice about it."

Oliver's stubble ridged with a frown. "You speak so harshly about yourself."

"I speak truthfully. Listen, I won't pretend I don't enjoy your company but you and I are better off knowing each other as knight and librarian-in-training only. Do you understand?"

He stood statue still, eyes searching me deeply. After a few moments, Oliver started for the front door. The regret that lanced my chest shocked me.

"Wait," I said before I could stop myself. "I'm- I don't- please don't leave."

Goddess, what was I doing?

"You confuse me, Rowan."

"I confuse myself on my best days."

"You made yourself clear just a moment ago," he said, still facing the door. "Does toying with a brute like me bring you enjoyment?"

"You are no brute, Oliver."

"No?" When he turned his face was solemn and dark. His voice was so deep it reverberated in my chest. "You're lucky not to have known me during wartime. I'd have disgusted you. Perhaps you're right to turn me away."

Was I mistaken about who Oliver was? Likely. But I'd be lying if I said that lessened his appeal. I was humbled that such a formidable man was trying very hard to do something he found deeply uncomfortable. Couldn't I meet him halfway? Couldn't I let myself… enjoy him?

"I don't want you to leave," I said, stepping closer without thought.

Oliver towered over me. His chest rose and fell with effort. Dark brows slashed over grey eyes, which sparked with heat. Before I knew what was happening, he leaned down and kissed me. My mouth opened in a gasp. Strong arms enveloped my body, pressing my slender form against him as our hot, wet lips melted together. A startled moan escaped me as his stubble rasped my face. His tongue gently prodded my mouth, and I eagerly accepted as my arms smoothed around his broad shoulders. With a grunt of need he lifted me off the ground and guided my legs up around his waist. Goddess, he was strong.

Fuelled by pure lust, we tumbled together onto the circulation desk, my arm frantically clearing away books and loose papers. I felt his hardness press against me, straining against the burden of his trousers. Large hands ran down my body before hiking my legs up higher. His hardness rubbed along the underside of my thigh, teasing us both. A man hadn't been inside me in quite a while. Oliver's slow, purposeful grinding reminded me of what I'd been missing.

This was insane. This couldn't be happening! I led men on, stole from them, and abandoned them once I had what I fancied. While I needed men for certain things, I did not  _want_  them. Oliver shouldn't have been an exception to this little rule. Centaura was not my home, I was only visiting, it was one stop along a grander passage. Yet I  _wanted_  Oliver. I wanted him to consume me until there was nothing left. And whatever was happening now, I didn't want it to stop.

Oliver tore himself from our kiss to look at me, reaffirming that I was actually in his embrace as his grey eyes glazed with lust. My heart roared in my chest. A savage need was building up in both of us, and I could tell our thoughts were identical. As he went to kiss me again, a sudden and startling cough rocketed through the air. I felt the cool breeze of the outside wind against my face, and in turning my confused gaze to the library's front doors, I realized it was wide open. Dozens of bewildered people stood in the entrance and peeked in from the street. Their faces were slack with scandalized amusement.

I remembered for the second time that night that I hadn't locked those damn doors.

"Sorry to interrupt," said a woman who was shielding her young child's eyes, "But is this the library? My, erm, daughter was in the market earlier today and she was listening to a young man read a story-"

"That's him!" the girl cried, batting her mother's hands away from her face. Her tiny finger stabbed in my direction. "That's the storyteller! The one on the bottom!"

Oh, Goddess be, this could not be happening.

Oliver dashed up like lightning, straightening his shirt and coughing as if something was stuck in his throat. I shot to my feet soon after. The flower garland, formerly snug on my head, tilted off my hair and fell to the floor. We must have looked absolutely bonkers. Among the crowd I recognized several of the children I'd read to earlier that day, along with their families, and other curious passersby. Huh. Ridiculously poor timing aside, it looked like my advocacy had actually paid off.

"We just thought, with the Festival happening, that you might be offering some sort of open-doors tour. For the children." The mother smiled brightly, no doubt to hide her own embarrassment.

Oliver and I, both equally dishevelled and flushed, traded a weary look. "Erm, sure. Who would like to begin a fantastic journey through the library?"

A chorus of happy voices rose in affirmation. Oliver's expression went from utter shock to flat despair. I stifled back my own laughter as I shrugged at him.

My stay in Centaura was shaping up to be a strange one indeed.


	5. Oliver

The impromptu open house held by the library was, in Oliver's opinion, too damned long.

Rowan at least seemed more than happy to give Centaura's tiny citizens the full run of the place, patiently answering their silly questions and nudging their parents to sign up for memberships. Oliver spent the better part of the fiasco keeping a silent watch beside a shelf of science textbooks. The children did not speak to him but they did stare in fascination as they wandered by. He and Rowan snuck the occasional embarrassed glance at one another.

Afterward, both men took to the streets in search of drinks, as it was decided they had earned it for the evening. Merchants were more than happy to oblige. As noisy and obnoxious as the Festival of the Crown could be, there were some admitted perks.

With two battered tin cups of jubilberry wine in hand, they walked aimlessly through the cobbled streets, chatting about this or that. The kingdom's northeastern Shady Hollow district was a maze of squat, unremarkable shops and houses with half-decayed roofs. Oliver wished he could take them somewhere nicer, the shoreline perhaps, but the streets were packed and no doubt all the carriages had been rented out by now.

Rowan swapped outfits for the occasion, and in truth he wore much nicer clothes (aside from a canvas bookbag slung over his shoulder) than his surroundings called for. His shirt was fine silk and midnight blue, while his suede trousers matched his raven hair. Unlike the average Centauran man, his clothes hemmed tight against his figure. As they passed under the glow of a streetlamp, the impression of his lithe, toned body became pleasingly obvious. Every glance stoked Oliver's lust, so he forced himself to concentrate on the street ahead.

"Have you always lived here?" Rowan asked, sipping wine. "On the island, I mean."

"Aside from the occasional overseas battle. The isles have always been my home."

"Have you ever wanted to travel? For fun?"

"Why would I need to go anywhere else?"

"For the experience! And the memories! In addition to the new towns, foods, drinks... and people!"

"I don't care for people."

"I can't say that's much of a surprise. Did you choose to become a misanthrope or were you born that way?"

"Serve in an army long enough and you'll understand. Don't see much good in my line of work."

Rowan held his gaze as he took another sip. "Anyone ever tell you you're a bit of a killjoy?"

"All the time." His honesty was met with a chuckle. "And what say you of people?"

"I say people are complicated. Kings, commoners, and misanthropic knights alike."

Oliver shook his head. "Not me. I'm as simple as they come."

"I don't believe that at all."

"I only say that with present company in mind."

"Your present company believes you are a multifaceted individual." He raked his hair off his face with delicate fingers. How could one person look so gorgeous doing something so banal? Oliver really did feel like a hulking brute next to him, his every movement labored and inelegant in comparison.

"I know of a person who might be seen as multifaceted. He's nothing like me."

"Describe this maverick, then. Whoever he is."

"I have not known him for long, but I will do my best. He appears to be a young journeyman of unknown provenance, who is literate, kind to children, a talented storyteller, and possesses a biting wit. Maybe too biting for his own good."

Rowan finished off the last of his wine. "He sounds like a nightmare."

"I haven't minded him so far."

This urge to make Rowan smile was foreign to the knight. One didn't take up the sword to become a people pleaser. He seemed to be rather talented at it despite everything, and the reward for his work was stellar.

The night marched on, as did the odd pair. Revelers swayed cheek to jowl, crooning drunkenly to anyone who'd listen. Oliver kept an eye out for troublemakers, just in case his skills in crowd control were needed.

 _Always a guard even out of your uniform_ , his sister liked to say with a pinch of derision.

Eventually they settled onto a humble rooftop patio at the edge of the district. Although the café was unremarkable, it offered a fantastic view of the castle and king's podium several blocks away. Niklas' speech had not yet started, which now made him hours late, despite Oliver's earlier efforts to reign him in. He could see a few of the councilors milling about the stage and nervously wringing their hands.

After ordering two cocktails that smelled of basil and lime, Rowan started on about the daily habits of Centaurans he found interesting (everyone greeted each other in the morning, even strangers), and how they differed from the citizens of the (rather unfriendly) port town he'd spent the last month in. Oliver listened, or tried to, for he found concentration difficult when their eyes met. He only realized he'd been staring when his companion's voice stopped.

"I feel as if I'm boring you."

Oliver shook his head and took a drink to calm his nerves. "Forgive me. Been a while since I've listened to someone speak about something other than patrol routes and defensive formations."

"Would I be more interesting if I was a knight?" he asked with a teasing glint in his eyes.

"Please, I would not wish that fate on anyone."

His companion frowned slightly. "Have you ever wanted to be anything else? If you don't mind my asking."

"I've never considered anything else. My father was a knight, his mother was a valkyrie, her father was a knight. My lineage has been one long blade."

"Did you feel like you didn't have a choice?"

"Rowan, look at me. What else could a man of my height and carriage and comfort with sharp objects do?"

He considered this for a moment. "How about knitting?"

Oliver laughed, for perhaps the first time in a long while, and it felt damn good. Rowan joined him, and their raucousness drew stares from their fellow café patrons. When they settled back down, Oliver heard footsteps fall behind him. Rowan's gaze shifted just over his shoulder. "Is that a friend of yours?"

He looked up to find Naxa, that strange astralmage, face open with vague curiosity. She wore a black cloak woven with arcane symbols of threaded gold that had the effect of making her look even more peculiar than usual. Oliver stood at once, snapping into a practiced routine. "What's the problem?"

"Why must there be a problem," Naxa said rather than asked. Her voice was like wind rustling the thick crown of a tree. "I was merely hoping to say hello. And meet your friend."

When she turned to Rowan, her curiosity became outright fascination. He stiffened under her wide, starry eyes. Oliver's jaw set as he slowly returned to his seat. "Rowan, this is..."

"Naxa Istri-Fhalamey of East Vendiyana. Arch Witch of the Astralmages."

"Took the words out of my mouth," Oliver said flatly. His companion only offered a stiff nod.

"I was walking aimlessly through this, erm, lovely neighborhood when I had a vision of King Niklas' beloved guard in a state of sublime happiness. It struck me as confusing. The man who spent our first meeting with his hand clenched so tightly around his sword's hilt it threatened to shatter? Happy? Perish the thought, I said. But then I glanced to the sky and saw you atop this establishment with a man whose beauty rivals even my colleague Hjulan's, and, well... my curiosity started fluttering like butterfly wings."

Even in the feeble moonlight Oliver could see Naxa was clearly enjoying this. Could she read his or Rowan's thoughts? He was unsure of the total scope of an astralmage's powers - something to do with projecting themselves into other realms of being? - though he didn't feel comfortable asking the one grinning down onto him. Instead he made a jumbled, awkward introduction for Rowan, who kept staring at his drink as if avoiding the stare of a large predator.

Naxa traced a finger along their table and played with a bead of moisture left from their ice-cold drinks. "Do you have a last name, Rowan?"

"Janshai-Li. Ma'am."

Oliver had never thought to ask for his surname. He'd never heard of the Janshai-Lis.

"And where do you come from, Rowan Janshai-Li?"

"The All Continent. Ma'am."

"An awfully large place. May you narrow that down for me? Country, region, town?"

Oliver made a deep, unpleasant noise. "Why not ask for the blanket his mother wrapped him in as a baby? Does interrogation fall under your suite of powers, astralmage?"

Naxa's expression became brittle. "Pardon me?"

"Can we enjoy ourselves in peace? This is a night of celebration."

"I was only making polite conversation. A skill that perhaps should be taught in knightstudy. But I shan't be a bother anymore," she said breezily. "Seems there's plenty around here to distract dashing young men like yourselves."

When she was gone Rowan rubbed his arms like he was overcome with a winter's chill. "I've never met an astralmage before. They're, erm, spirited, aren't they?"

Oliver rolled his eyes as he took another drink. "She arrived just today, her and the Red Eclipse. They're a peace coalition of mages."

"That's a terribly sinister name for a peace coalition." He hugged his arms close to his chest. "Do all astralmages come across that way?"

Oliver leaned forward, frowning with concern. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "It's just that it felt like she was gazing right into my mind. Like I'd been standing guard of a vault my entire life and all of a sudden this smiling stranger approaches me with the key in her hand."

"I'll speak to her the next time I see her, which I imagine unfortunately will be soon."

"No," Rowan shot back with a force that surprised him. "No, please. Forget it. I was just- I wasn't prepared, is all."

"But if you were made to feel uncomfortable I will-"

"I'm an adult. I promise I'm fine." A soft grin, and then he touched their hands together. Oliver suspected Rowan often used this charm of his as a distraction – but a distraction from what? Why had he frozen under Naxa's scrutiny? Yes, she was prodding, but he couldn't imagine why Rowan would feel embarrassed about where he grew up, his clothes, accent, and sophisticated surname pointed to a refined upbringing.

His own curiosity aside, Oliver didn't like when people interrogated him about personal details, so he didn't press the matter. Instead, they drank and settled back into their easy flirtation, one large, calloused hand atop a smaller, softer one. Rowan's eyes drifted to Oliver's left arm a few times but he never asked about it. He must have noticed something during their brief but wildly passionate encounter back at the library. Hands were everywhere, after all...

By the time their drinks were finished, the patio had cleared out and so had the streets below. King Niklas was finally taking the stage and there was a great rush to watch him speak. Nik had grown quite a following among his people since ascending to the throne, due in part to his humble upbringing and proficiency as a physical fighter. As for his nocturnal adventures (Oliver thought of the dozens of times he'd walked in on Nik and a farm hand, Nik and a stable boy, carpenter, miller, grocer's son, armorer...) the kingdom mostly looked the other way or just saw it as some rowdy quirk of his.

"Do you want to watch your friend's speech? Seems like the popular thing to do."

"With all due respect to Nik, I'd prefer to stay right here."

Rowan bit his lower lip. It looked inviting. "If he's a true friend, he'll understand."

"Luckily, Nik is the truest friend a man could have. Though I'd never say such a thing to him. Another round of drinks?"

"That's very kind of you."

"I'll return shortly. Don't run off, now."

Rowan arched a brow. "And have you chase me? That'd be quite a sight."

Oliver was halfway down the stairs to the café's main floor when he was struck by an awful smell. The air was heavy with a wet, metallic scent, one that he recognized instantly. It was stone silent, too; he did not hear the usual background noise of glasses clinking and servers taking drink orders. Even if the area had largely cleared out to watch the king speak, it shouldn't have been  _this_  quiet.

Something was wrong.

Oliver turned around just as a large, hairy arm swung down in his direction. He dodged the blow but lost his footing in the stairwell's cramped, awkward space. His attacker charged forward, using his momentum to shove him off his feet. Oliver tumbled the rest of the way down the steps, landing painfully on his side.

Oliver wretched as he scrambled to stand, ignoring the hot slice of pain along his torso and leg. The café was, literally, a bloody mess. There was only one body – the poor owner – but it was enough to make the room look like the back of a butcher shop. Standing before Oliver were four unnaturally tall, bare-chested men. They were halfway between human and wolf, with yellow eyes that gleamed like amber in sunlight, bare skin matted in dark hair, and hands adorned with sharp, bloodied nails.

Lycanmen. Here in Centaura. Oliver never thought he'd see the day. He'd never heard of any sightings on the island. Most people thought the they were a myth, to scare children out of wandering too far into the woods.

His attacker from the stairwell, the largest of the beasts, stepped into the room and made a show of cracking his considerable knuckles. He spoke with a voice deeper than the ocean trenches. "Where's your armor, then, big boy?"

Deep snorts of laughter from the alpha's underlings. Oliver readied himself in a defensive stance. He'd heard enough about these monsters not to show them any weakness.

"You think I need chainmail and steel to take you lot out for your walks?"

"That tongue of yours won't be so smart when we rip it out your face," snarled one of them, which caused the alpha to strike him across the face.

"Wait your turn," the alpha spat. "First we collect what we came for. Then we can have our fun with this royal bootlicking trash."

Hungry eyes and bared teeth turned in Oliver's direction. Without waiting for them to strike, the knight grabbed the nearest table and flung it in their direction. The alpha bolted out of the way as it crashed into one of the smaller beasts instead, sending it flying across the room in a shower of splintered wood.

The alpha snorted. "This one's strong!"

"Nice chewy muscles I'll bet," said one of the underlings before he leapt through the air. Oliver pivoted, striking the beast hard in the back as he sailed by. The lycanman crashed into another table but got back on his feet with supernaturally quick reflexes. He pounced Oliver again, this time making contact as sharp teeth sunk around the knight's arm. But the beast became confused – he was not lapping up the exquisite taste of flesh and blood. In fact, his teeth did not seem to break skin at all. He tore his mouth away with the shirt sleeve trapped between fangs, revealing Oliver's metal arm. Rune symbols glowing with luminescent power were etched along the perfectly sculpted muscles. The beast only had half a moment to react before a shining silver fist knocked him unconscious.

Breath heaving in his solid chest, Oliver turned to stare down the alpha and his remaining two underlings.

"Secrets, secrets, secrets," the alpha hissed, sneering lips pulled up into something resembling a smile. "How many more does the iron guard hide?"

In a flurry of motion so swift that his human eyes could not perceive it at once, the alpha was suddenly inches away, so close that his rancid breath hit him like a wall. With one clawed hand around his throat, the beast heaved the knight off the ground with impossible strength.

"Give us who we came for. We can smell him all over you."

Oliver's response -  _Give you who?_  - was lost in the vice grip of his opponent. Words could not escape his throat, which was one squeeze away from being crushed. The knight was considered one of the mightiest in a battalion already full of men and women who were the most formidable of their kind. But he had not fought these monsters before - and they were besting him with the indifferent ease of a child trapping an insect.

"This can end peacefully, iron guard." The alpha's golden yellow eyes narrowed as he used a word Oliver had never heard before. "Just give us the libriomage."


End file.
